


Chadron, Nebraska

by gaydaractivate04



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Bisexual Dean Winchester, Canonical Character Death, Castiel owns a diner, Dean is not subtle, Fluff, Happy Ending, Human Castiel (Supernatural), Hurt/Comfort, Misunderstandings, POV Sam Winchester, Sam Winchester is So Done, we know it's temporary
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-04
Updated: 2021-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-17 15:02:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29843292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gaydaractivate04/pseuds/gaydaractivate04
Summary: Sam didn’t think anything of it the first time they stopped in Chadron, a small town near the border of Nebraska. It was on the way to their next job, a convenient place to restock on rock salt and whiskey.He didn’t think anything of it when Dean insisted on going to a particular diner -- not to stay and eat, but to pick up some greasy burgers, to tide them over as they drive through the night. His brother went in by himself, waving Sam away when he offered to come with, sayingI can get us some damn food by myself, just figure out which road we’re takin’ out of here.He would think of it later.
Relationships: Castiel & Sam Winchester, Castiel/Dean Winchester, Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester
Comments: 6
Kudos: 112





	Chadron, Nebraska

**Author's Note:**

> Heyo! Credit to gunpowder_and_pearls for betaing this and telling me it was great, even though it isn't.
> 
> I was inspired at five in the morning a week ago and only just wrote this -- I hope you enjoy the idea as much as I did!!

Sam didn’t think anything of it the first time they stopped in Chadron, a small town near the border of Nebraska. It was on the way to their next job, a convenient place to restock on rock salt and whiskey.

He didn’t think anything of it when Dean insisted on going to a particular diner -- not to stay and eat, but to pick up some greasy burgers, to tide them over as they drive through the night. His brother went in by himself, waving Sam away when he offered to come with, saying  _ I can get us some damn food by myself, just figure out which road we’re takin’ out of here. _

The maps in the glove compartment were faded, corners frayed, folds and pen marks familiar, as Sam unfolded them, searching for the ones detailing Nebraska. It took him barely ten minutes to plot their route, finding the closest highway that headed in the direction they wanted.

Ten minutes was more than enough time for Dean to grab them food, he should’ve been out by now. Sam couldn’t help but look out the window, to the diner across the street, squinting as he searches for his brother, fingers wrapped around the hilt of the knife at his waist -

There.

His brother was smiling, laughing with the cashier, the paper bag of burgers resting on the counter before him, the food cooling down as they talked. For someone who ignored the speed limit as he drove, saying the job was important and risky, and they had to get there fast, Dean didn’t look like he had a care in the world as he killed time.

Sam couldn’t hold back his snort of disgust, of annoyance, as Dean leaned farther over the counter, shooting a smile at a blonde waitress over his shoulder as she walked by, tray balanced on one hand. It was as if his brother couldn’t resist, flirting his way through every city in the country.

Sam watched as Dean  _ finally _ wrapped up his conversation with the behind the counter, shoving a generous amount of money in the tip jar -- far too much for a couple burgers and fries. 

They were tight on money right now and Dean  _ knew that. _

His brother made his way across the parking lot slowly, crossing the empty street and making his way to the Impala, that bag of food swinging in his hand. He was still smiling, and Sam was curious of what he could’ve  _ possibly _ been talking about to make him so happy.

He didn’t ask, though, instead accepting the bag through the window, Dean handing it off before getting in on the driver’s side. The car rocked as the door was slammed shut, the engine roaring as the key was turned.    
  
“Took you long enough,” said Sam, pulling his burger from the paper bag, the sandwich wrapped in patterned foil, likely original to the diner. “What, you asking everyone in there on a date or something?”

Dean glared at him, taking the bag right out of his hands and glancing from the road as he reached for his own food. “Jesus, Sam. I got us the damn burgers, alright? Did you figure out how the hell to get out of here?”

He didn’t think anything of his brother’s defensiveness, rolling his eyes as he spread out a map, balancing it on his knees.

He would think of it later.

  
  


\-----

  
  


The next time they stopped in Chadron, it was for an entire night. Dean claimed he was tired, hungry, and sick of driving, and  _ besides, it’s a ghost that’s materializing monthly. We’ve got a few weeks and we’ll get there tomorrow. That’s a salt and burn, easy. _

The motel they book a room in was better decorated than most -- toned down bedspreads of a soft blue, artful - photocopied - framed pictures of the forest, of dim strips of road. Sam was impressed, honestly, with the little motel.

There was a strange interaction with the manager, when they were at the front desk, the bored college aged girl was handing them their keys. They were turning to leave, when a voice sounded from a back room, a woman emerged, smiling brightly at his brother.

“Dean,” she called, and Dean grinned back. “I didn’t think you’d be back in town so soon. Last I saw you was just -”   
  
This was not a reunion Sam needed to be here for, not between his brother and his last hookup in Chadron. He’d walked in on enough...moments, he didn’t need another one burned into his mind, joining the countless others.

He interrupted the manager quickly, giving an apologetic smile when she cocked a brow, obviously annoyed. “Sorry, but I’m going to head to our rooms. Thanks, again, for making such a late night exception.”   
  
The last part was a useless platitude, meaningless but polite. There was no reason for the staff to turn them away, there were no hours listed. 

At least, now he knew why Dean had chosen this motel  _ specifically. _

His brother called after him, as Sam walked away. “I’ll pick us up some food. I’m not surviving another night on trail mix and rabbit food.”   
  
He only waved over his shoulder, acknowledging the words. Sam was tired, despite himself, and didn’t feel like expending energy on reminding Dean how bad the crap he’d bring back was for them, how that  _ rabbit food _ was probably the only reason his brother hadn’t had a heart attack yet.

Their bags went at the foot of the bed, clinking and clanking as Sam dropped them. There wasn’t research to do, not for the job they were headed towards, but he pulled out his laptop anyways, knowing he wouldn’t be able to sleep for another hour at least, no matter how exhausted he was.

Not sleeping was an excellent summary of his childhood, teen, and now, -  _ after leaving and Stanford and Jess _ \- his adult life, nights spent typing away to the light of a computer screen or scribbling down notes under a dim motel lamp.

Tonight, he did both of those things, waiting for Dean to return with the food, waiting for the exhaustion to kick in and for his eyelids to droop, for his head to slump onto his hand and for the pillow to seem  _ so inviting - _

None of these things happened, not for hours. 

Three hours later, to be exact, was when Dean stumbled through the door, smelling of booze and sweat and  _ sex, _ a brown bag clutched in his hand.

“Sammy,” Dean slurred, kicking the door shut behind him. His voice was just on the edge of too loud and Sam resisted the urge to tell him to  _ shut up. _ “I brought ya’ back a couple of those burgers. You’re a growin’ boy, you’ve got to eat up.”

_ Jesus Christ. More of those damn bacon burgers - _

They were delicious, Sam had to give them credit. That didn’t mean he felt the need to them all the time, when there were other options that were less of a heart attack risk.

“So,” he said instead, taking a moment to be petty, to be irritated. “How was your hookup? Was it the manager or the bartender?”

Dean hadn’t answered him -- usually he’d smirk and posture before he was even asked, describing things Sam had no need to hear, things that made him was to bleach his brain, load his handgun and fire, take a dive off the nearest bridge, if only to get the images out of his mind.

Sam hadn’t thought anything of it, turning back to his research as he brother showered. 

He would think of it later.

  
  


\-----

  
  


They’d split up, covering two cases at once and planning to meet back in the dry state of California, following rumors of poltergeists and reconvening for the wendigo. And Dean was late, by half an hour.

That wasn’t right, that wasn’t supposed to happen, there should’ve been no delays -

But Sam had gotten a call from his brother hours ago, confirming that he’d put the spirit to rest and was fine, minus a few scrapes and bruises, and he was on his way, speeding down empty roads and small towns.

They didn’t have long until the wendigo fed again, with the rate the  _ bear attacks _ were occurring. They needed to find a place to leave Bobby’s borrowed car, to be picked up on the way back. They needed to restock on torches, flare guns, shotgun casings and  _ Dean was late. _

When his brother finally arrived, climbing out of his car with a now-familiar logo on the crumpled paper bag in his hands, which Dean tossed in the garbage before heading to where Sam sat, in the outdoor dining of a roadside restaurant. 

“You stopped to get a burger?” he asked, as Dean neared, suddenly angry. These were people’s lives they were racing to save, and his brother  _ always _ got that, always pushing for more jobs and high speeds.

Dean didn’t even answer, sitting down across from his and taking the newspaper from his hands, the page turned to the article detailing the latest bear mauling. It was recent, only the day before, and  _ that _ was why Sam was so damn ready to drive to those mountains, ready or not.

“It struck again,” Dean noted, skimming the words with a finger. “They don’t usually need to feed this often.”

The issue of Dean’s tardiness was set aside, after that, as they exchanged theories and paid for the coffee Sam had gotten while waiting, the familiar rumble of the Impala’s engine accompanying their words as they headed towards the closest general store.

Sam would think of it all again -- not soon, later.

  
  


\-----

  
  


They’d made a detour, this time. Adding nearly an hour onto their drive, Dean made an excuse about knowing an herbalist in the town who would be able to help them with a banishing spell, with warding.

Their first stop  _ was _ at this herbalist’s shop, a small, cramped place with tilting shelves and big windows. It smelled like a mixture of spices and the inside of a greenhouse, incense burning in every corner, the air thick with the smoke.

Dean claimed the excuse of suffocation, after making nice with the gray haired woman for a grand two minutes. He left Sam to deal with finding the rest of the things on their list, clapping him on the shoulder as he left.

_ I’ll go get us some food. I’ll meet you at the car -- yeah, I’ll be fine. Quit motherhenning, there ain’t shit in this tiny town that could take either of us. _

Left in a tightly packed building with a woman who was undoubtedly a witch, Sam wasn’t sure he believed his brother.

They drove out of Chadron forty minutes later, with a restocked cache of questionable herbs and stones, and without any food, Dean returning empty handed and grim faced. 

Later, Sam will return to this moment, from the distance of the future.

  
  


\-----

  
  


They drove to Texas and Dean took the longest possible way, sticking to back roads and farmland, driving past fields and fields and  _ fields _ of corn, the windows rolled down as music played and dry wind blew through.

Dean didn’t even try for an excuse, a reason, this time. He didn’t say a word, heading towards that town in Nebraska Sam knew he was visiting, every time he possibly could.

Sam had stopped asking questions, no matter how much he burned with curiosity, accepting it was what it was. And Dean -- Dean had stopped answering entirely, even if Sam asked directly.

  
  


\-----

  
  


Sam called Dean, from Bobby’s place. He was benched, on account of a twisted knee, and forced to stay that way with the threat of losing his kneecap entirely. His brother answered, after a pause, a minute of Sam shifting in his chair, waiting and waiting, as the phone rang.

Dean was working a case, Sam was sending over research and lore he found in Bobby’s library, books yellowed and crackling with age. He knew Dean was probably fine, that he was only doing cursory scouting and would let them know when he really started hunting, but -

But, that worry was still there.

_ “Yeah, Bobby?” _ There was the murmuring of a second voice in the background, soft and muffled, before Dean spoke again.  _ “Can this wait? I’m a little busy right now.” _

“Bobby’s out,” said Sam, hoping Dean could hear just  _ how _ annoyed he was. “Are you with someone or something?”

_ “Jesus, Sam. What the hell do you want? You got something for me?” _

  
  


\-----

  
  


Dean said he’d meet Sam at a motel, one he’d sent the name and address of to his phone -- his brother had a lead he wanted to chase down, to make sure it was nothing, just more wack jobs talking about abduction and aliens.

Sam pretended not to notice the familiar fast food bag, crumpled and tossed in the trash can, after Dean arrived.

  
  


\-----

  
  


Dean got dragged to hell, and everything changed.

Sam was alone. Truly, completely alone, for the first time in his life. Bobby was there, sure, and he kept extending invitations for Sam to drop by, to stay for longer than the few hours it took to refresh himself with Bobby’s library, searching for information on a siren, a spirit killed in certain circumstances, a pagan god running rampant.

Sam declined each time -- there was no need to dumb his crap on Bobby, and there were monsters to hunt.

With Ruby dead, stabbed by Dean only days before his clock ran out, with his only living family member kept at a distance -

Sam had  _ no one. _

Somehow, one day, he found himself sitting in the Impala, pulled to the side of a winding mountain road, opening the glove compartment. He knew there were old burner phones in there, maps and documents, fake ids for every job on the planet. There would come a time when he needed to clean it out, put Dean’s somewhere safe, and it seemed that today was that day.

The papers went in a neat stack, the bigger ones at the bottom, the smaller pages at the top. Sam stacked them methodically, robotically, eyes catching on every scribbled doodle and note Dean had left behind.

The identification came next, his own put back inside the compartment, Dean’s licences placed carefully atop the papers. Sam turned them face down, hands shaking, confronted with his brother’s grin, his dumb aliases.

Then came the phones, nine in total. Sam would go through them later, to decide which ones to strip of their sim cards and which were worth keeping, which had outdated contacts, which had outlived their usefulness. But then, crammed in the corner, all the way in the back, was a tenth phone, one Sam had never seen before and he pulled it out, flipped it open, saw the only number on speed dial -   
  
It said, simply:  _ Cas. _

He’d dialed before he realized what he was doing, and the phone rang and rang and  _ rang. _

Then -

A voice answered.

_ “Dean? God, I was so worried. It’s been over a month, and I thought something happened -” _

“Sorry,” said Sam, interrupting the man on the other end. He felt detached, as if he was floating high above the car, watching himself speak. Empty eyed, hollow voiced. “This is Sam, his brother. Who are you?”

There was a pause and Sam was suddenly scared that the man had hung up, finding someone he hadn’t expected on the other end.

_ “My name is Castiel Novak,” _ said the man, and wasn’t that a strange name? _ “I own a diner in Nebraska. I’m your brother’s…” _

Oh.

_ Oh. _

“You’re the reason he always stopped in Chadron, aren’t you?” Sam remembered every time, in the last few years, that Dean had found a flimsy, see-through excuse to visit a tiny town in the middle of nowhere. Every time his brother returned to the car, to the motel, to wherever they were meeting up, flushed and hair askew, as if someone had run their hands through it  _ forcefully. _

_ He should’ve told me. _

It was a selfish thought, Sam knew, in the wake of what had happened. In wake of what Dean had done for him. He just- he wished he’d known. He would’ve questioned less, would’ve smiled more, would’ve insisted on meeting the man himself.

He could only hope this  _ Castiel _ had made his brother happy -- and with how much Dean smiled, coming back from that diner, Sam knew he had.

_ “Yes, I- you said stopped. Why did you say that? Did something happen?” _ The fear rising in Cas’ voice wasn’t imagined, his words getting faster, stumbling over one another.

“Cas…” Sam trailed off. This was not a thing to say over a crappy burner phone, with tinny voices and bad reception. “How about this: I’ll come to you. I’m an hour away, sit tight.”

He ended the call before the other man could respond, snapping the phone closed and tossing it into the glove compartment. He shoved the rest of the things, the papers and ids, the burners and maps, his neat stacks collapsing into haphazard piles.

It didn’t matter, not right now. 

Sam took a deep breath, hands shaking where they clutched the steering wheel. He wondered when that had started -- the shaking. It didn’t matter, really. That feeling had been around his whole life, it was only now showing.

He blinked hard once, twice. Turned the ignition, the engine rumbling to life. Gravel crunched beneath the wheels as he turned, driving back the way he’d come.

He had a brother-in-law to meet, and he wouldn’t be late, no matter how much he wanted to drive right off the cliffside.

  
  


\-----

  
  


Sam met Cas outside of the diner, and drove them to the other man’s house, the sun beating down on them as they sat in silence.

He held Cas tight as the man sobbed, crumpled on his knees in the living room, limbs giving out as grief overtook them both.

  
  


\-----

  
  


“We could find a way, couldn’t we?” asked Cas, one day, the pair of them sitting on the front porch of his tiny house. “He found a way to bring you back. We can do the same.”

“He’s in hell,” replied Sam, leaning against the wall of the house, legs splayed in front of him. “They won’t want to give him up.”

  
  


\-----

  
  


Angels were real, it turned out.

They pulled Dean out of the smoldering fires and stinking blood of the inferno, leaving his brother with nightmares that he screamed from, that he drank to forget, that kept him awake when Sam had long since turned in for the night.

It took two weeks for Sam to convince his brother that Cas still wanted to see, that he wasn’t filthy or evil or  _ wrong, _ that what he did down there -

It didn’t define him.

Sam called ahead, Cas’ number now programmed into all his burners, memorized after the third hour long call. Their plans, should a miracle occur, should their dreams come true, was set in motion.

  
  


\-----

  
  


The house that Sam had helped pay for was two stories tall, a beautiful home, with pale yellow paint and white edging. It had three bedrooms -  _ room to grow _ \- stained glass windows, and a back garden that included planter boxes and  _ beehives. _

He’d stopped by every chance he could, over the last four months, getting his hands covered in dirt and grass stains, rather than guts and blood.

It was nice, and it was exactly what Dean needed, what he deserved, what he’d never had.

Dean drove, the route well known, every road in and out memorized -- another flimsy lie, that need for maps, whenever they passed through.

When they arrived in that little, dusty town, Sam directed them past the diner, past the road he knew turned into Cas’ old house. His brother looked doubtful, likely seconds from calling Sam out on getting them lost, but he stayed silent, surprisingly.

Sam stayed by the car, once Dean parked. 

“Go on,” he said, at his brother’s questioning glance. “It’s your house, after all.”

Cas was on the porch, the screen door banging shut behind him, chest heaving and eyes wide as Dean turned towards him, the pair staring at each other, one terrified, the other elated. 

Dean was the one who took the first step, a stuttering, hesitant one, his hands slack at his side. Then another, another, and it was as if the lines holding his brother back had been cut, Dean surging forward, racing up the wooden stairs, slamming into Cas, clutching him tight.

Sam didn’t stare, didn’t watch for too long. This wasn’t his moment after all. It wasn’t his reunion, no matter the steps he took to get to it.

A neighbor was frozen in her yard, rake in hand, and Sam waved, grinning at her shocked expression.

Maybe, before those extra bedrooms were filled, he’d stop by when he passed through.

  
  


\-----

  
  


Dean Winchester walked into a church on a sunny day in June, Castiel Novak at his side.

They walked out as Dean and Castiel Winchester.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Hey y'all! Thanks for reading, I hope you liked it.
> 
> Please lemme know what you thought!!
> 
> Stay safe and stay healthy!


End file.
